Ostinato
by solo player sab
Summary: On the days Tifa allowed herself to succumb to the bittersweet sting of nostalgia, she found herself at the piano.


os•ti•na•to (ˌɒs tɪˈnɑ toʊ)  
 _n., pl._ **-tos.** a musical pattern, as a melodic figure, repeated continuously throughout a composition. [Italian, from Latin obstinātus, _stubborn_ , past participle of obstināre, _to_ _persist_ ; see **obstinate**.]

 _Inspired by Tifa's Theme from Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children, composed by Nobuo Uematsu._

 **Ostinato**  
 _by solo player sab_

On the days Tifa allowed herself to succumb to the bittersweet sting of nostalgia, she found herself at the piano.

Humming a soft tune, she grazed two fingers along the length of its keys, noting the various fingerprints of traveling pianists who had paid visit to her humble _Seventh Heaven_. Most nights, the instrument was left alone by patrons busy with their food and drinks, but sometimes – on those rare occasions when a musically inclined customer took notice of it – the piano in the corner sang beautiful melodies that stole the attention of everyone on the floor.

She sighed, dreamily. Those nights were her favorite. A small smile teased her lips as her pinky pressed a key lightly and the note – _F, was it?_ – chirped from the soundboard and echoed faintly through the empty bar.

Tifa loved the sounds of a piano, and yet, very few of the fingerprints that marked those keys were her own.

Perhaps it was the memory of her childhood – so painfully _happy_ – that kept her away; or maybe it was the stark contrast of her battered, scarred knuckles against the delicate, white keys that served as an agonizing reminder of how violently she was torn away from her innocence.

Perhaps, quite simply, it made her miss her mother…

Four low notes – _F, C, F, A_ – rolled out from her fingertips in slow succession, tones ascending softly as it resounded a familiar _arpeggio_. _F major_ , she recalled.

The notes dissipated and the room went silent as Tifa paused, remembering. It had been some time.

She shifted her left hand and repeated the four notes with slight tonal variation. _F, C#, F, A#..._

They were the first few notes of the last piece her mother had taught her. She didn't even remember the name of it, but it was the only composition she remembered from her childhood lessons. Tifa sighed again. She wondered what Mama would say to her now, with her sloppy fingering and lousy form. It had been a lifetime and still, she could hear her faint motherly chiding.

Again, her left hand repeated, _F, C, F, A…_

As the top note reverberated through and dispersed into air, Tifa's left hand slid off the keys into her lap. She eyed the higher pitched notes on the right hand side of the piano and recollected, clearly, a different sequence: the distinct five-note motif that made up the melody of this song. She remembered loving that tune as a child; she loved _playing_ it more than anything else; recalled her right hand dancing playfully across higher pitched keys. That melody was what made this song so recognizable. It was iconic.

But, there was something that time and age and experience brought to her that made her partial to the lesser heard, less noticeable bass line in the left hand; that ascending four-note repetition; that gentle _ostinato_ – that's what her mother called it.

 _There was just something about it…_

"Why did you stop?"

Tifa smiled and wasn't all that surprised by her new spectator. After all, she wasn't the only one who knew this song from her childhood. She knew without turning around that Cloud had made himself comfortable on a bar stool nearby, as he usually did on these kinds of days.

So, she played.

The five-note melody of her right hand echoed pleasantly through the room in _mezzo-piano_ while the warm four-note sequence of her left echoed in response. Fingertips danced across black and white keys as the repeating bass line _ostinato_ seemed to carry along the tender and wistful melody in euphonious _crescendos_ and _decrescendos_.

 _Maybe that's it_ , she pondered as music filled the room.

It was the way the bass notes repeated throughout the song in a low and steady pace that felt so _familiar._ While the main melody evolved and progressed in numerous transpositions and variations, the _ostinato_ persisted in its continuous, repetitive sequence; loyal to the melody, carrying it along, never leaving its side.

It was so characteristically _her._

Tifa thought of the man sitting behind her and the journey they shared saving the Planet. She thought of the trials they faced and the people they lost. She thought of his evolution into the hero he was now and her role in his story…

And in that moment, Tifa realized that she never really felt like a hero. She did not brandish a mighty sword that could slay Sephiroth, nor did she possess other worldly powers that could stop Meteor and cure Geostigma. She was no ex-SOLDIER nor was she a Cetra.

No, she wasn't one of the heroes…but she was _always there_ :

Through lost memories and broken identities; _"…And that's why I told you about the AVALANCHE job. I wanted to be with you and watch you…"_

Through bouts of Mako poisoning; _"…I don't care about anything else, only Cloud…I…want to be by his side…"_

Through the Lifestream; _"…Let's go have a look, Cloud. I know it's not easy…I'll be here for you…"_

Through Geostigma; _"…Don't run! We can help each other, I know we can..."_

She was a rhythmic _ostinato_ on a sheet of music; steady, supportive, encouraging; gently pushing along a melody that didn't always stop to wait for her but would _always need her_.

The final chord of the piece resonated _affetuoso_ – "with feeling," her mother had taught – as Tifa caressed the ivory keys at its conclusion. She sat motionless and gazed at her blemished knuckles, enjoying the soft reverb of the last note. She wondered if Mama could hear it now.

"I bet she could whoop some butt as nicely as she played the piano, too."

Tifa glanced over her shoulder at Cloud, a crinkle in his eye and his expression soft and encouraging. Her cheeks dimpled as she responded, amused, "If you thought Papa was scary…"

"I wouldn't stand a chance against Mrs. Lockhart."

She grinned. Cloud hopped on his feet with a light _thud_ and sauntered over to where Tifa sat. He gave her a playful nudge with his hips and she giggled, scooting over to make room for him on the piano bench. Cloud lifted two index fingers to the keys and tapped out a laughable rendition of _Chopsticks_. He looked up at Tifa eagerly for approval and she laughed, swatting his hands away lightly. He beamed, proud of the reaction he prompted, before the two of them fell into a comfortable silence.

It was reassuring knowing she wasn't alone in answering nostalgia's call. Cloud had probably emerged from the garage – likely tinkering with Fenrir – upon hearing her play. He almost always stopped what he was doing to come listen. Tifa wondered if he did the same when he was a boy in Nibelheim.

" _Look, Tifa,"_ she remembered her mother cooing, in that warm, velvety voice she would never forget, _"you have an audience."_ Eight-year-old Tifa would look over her mother's shoulder, out her window, and make out the faint image of the boy next door, leaning his disheveled blonde hair against his own bedroom window, listening.

That boy always seemed so sad, for some reason. Tifa always wondered if her piano playing made him feel better. She had hoped so.

After some time, Cloud muttered, "That song really feels like home, y'know?"

"What, _Chopsticks_?"

Cloud chuckled and shook his head. "No. Your mother's song."

"Ah." Tifa looked down at her hands. "It does."

Half-consciously, her left hand found its place back among the keys. A low _ostinato_ echoed once more: _F, C, F, A –_

Suddenly, the five-note melody rang out in sequence – _C, A, G, A, C_ – and Tifa looked up, startled, at a grinning Cloud whose right hand lingered on the corresponding keys. Tifa smiled. She forgot that she had taught him parts of this song, awhile back.

It was a simple piece – minimalistic, at best – but Tifa felt that nothing was more fitting.

Because as a fighter, she did not carry a sword or hold any special powers; she defended the Planet with her fists.

She was not a symphony orchestra featuring brass, wind, and string instruments performing epics in a grand theater; she was a modest, upright piano humming intimate ballads in a little girl's bedroom.

Cloud took Tifa's hand tenderly in his own and touched his lips to the scars of her knuckles, partly in quiet understanding but mostly in unspoken gratitude. She blinked up at him as the corner of her lips curved and she lowered her hands to the ivory keys to play for him once more.

She was not an iconic melody that defined a musical piece; she was the sturdy bass line; the unwavering foundation allowing the melody to run its course.

" _After this…I think I'll be okay._ _Because I have you this time."_

 _"You've always had me."_

She was, and always would be, Tifa Lockhart of Nibelheim; the _ostinato_ to the melodies of her life; steady as the beating of her heart.


End file.
